O Little Flat In Baker Street
by SheWhoScrawls
Summary: My response to Hades Lord Of The Dead's 2018 December Calendar Challenge! To the best of my ability, all scenes will be set within the Baker Street rooms, barring any prompts which require them to be otherwise. Hope you enjoy my holiday spirit and mischief!
1. Chapter 1

**December 1st:** _Black velvet band_

 **From:** _Madam'zelleG_

* * *

"You mean to tell me," said Doctor Watson, folding his newspaper with a sigh, "that the family isn't as concerned that their daughter is missing as they are that her velvet choker was found on the neck of a goat?"

Sherlock Holmes smirked over the rim of his teacup as he took a sip. "The issue appears to be that this black velvet choker, dating back to the French Revolution and owned by a first cousin of Marie Antoinette, was almost certainly ruined by its contact with goat hair. This is why they have requested me to track down the man responsible, so that he may be punished for the destruction of a historically significant artifact."

Watson massaged his temples. "Not even to _mention_ the testimony received from the maid, which stated that the daughter was never seen without the necklace, and that its removal from her person implies something to have befallen her?"

"Precisely, my dear man! As further evidenced when she did not return home last night!"

"You don't think the family had something to do with it, do you?"

Holmes laughed. "An interesting theory, but had they been involved in her disappearance, they would have ensured the necklace's safe return. I suggest that our focus be instead upon the finding of the necklace on a goat."

Watson furrowed his brow, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. "I do seem to remember a similar case in Devon last year...it warranted a paragraph in _The Times._ A local girl disappeared, and her necklace was found upon a goat wandering the property, despite the fact that the family had never owned a goat."

"Oh Watson, if you only remembered all the occasions I'd told you, you'd know that nearly two dozen cases have been reported in Italy, France, and England in the past five years! In every case, a young woman is kidnapped, and a piece of jewelry belonging to her has been found upon a goat which the family has never seen before. A few of the earlier cases, in Italy, were traced back to an Italian mobster, though the man has never been caught. No one even knows for sure what he looks like."

"An Italian mobster?"

"Yes, Watson, one who goes by the name of _L'uomo di Capra._ "

"The Goat Man."

"Indeed."

"And none of the girls' bodies have ever turned up?"

"None."

Watson pounded his fist on the table and stood. "Then it seems to me that he keeps hold of the girls for nefarious purposes. We must find him at once, Holmes!"

* * *

 _A/N: You guys know what really gets my goat?_

 _El Chupacabra. XD_

 _Well, I hope you enjoyed, and it's good to be back after several years and see so many of you still here! As always, comments and reviews are appreciated! - Ell_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I'm pleased to announce that I was able to make this a continuation of the first chapter! I hope you enjoy! -Ell_

* * *

 **December 2nd:** _Sherlock Holmes is not who we thought._

 **From:** _Book Girl Fan_

* * *

Late upon the next night, the door of the Baker Street sitting room was flung wide open, and two damp, freezing men appeared, one of whom was incredibly flustered.

"Holmes, you told me your family were nobility! You claimed to be an esquire!"

"Watson, Watson, I gave up parading the fact around years ago - some time before you moved in. It was Mycroft who told you everything you know about our childhood."

Both of the men shed their wet coats and scarves and drew near to the fireplace, which had been kept up by Mrs. Hudson in anticipation of their return. They took a moment to warm their hands and rub feeling back into their cherry-red noses before either continued.

"But you -" Watson protested, throwing Holmes periodic glances full of shock and wonder.

"My good man, simply because we were once respectable enough to earn such titles does not mean we were always wealthy and able to keep our noses from the dirt." Holmes sighed and turned around to warm his back half. "When I was eleven years old, my father fell in with the wrong sort at a horse track, and wound up owing a very fishy man a lot of money. He had to pay, of course, there was nothing that could be done about that at the time. We lost our fortune and reputation for a time, and had to let go of most of our servants. We nearly lost the house, only we managed to run a sort of farm to keep afloat until my father sorted out his matters."

"That's why you were so good with the goat," Watson stated in awe, massaging the cold out of the old wound in his shoulder.

"Yes, Watson, that's why I was so good with the goat."

"I must say, though, I was not even aware that goats possessed a keen sense of smell."

"Well, you did not tend them on your property for the better part of three years, did you, Watson?"

All the detective got was a _humph_ in reply, so he continued on to explain. "While it is true that they are not the first tracking animal one thinks of, goats _do_ possess decent memories. They also have a liking for eating just about any material, and they first smell it, then remember that they enjoy the smell and taste. I will admit that it was a stroke of luck that a scrap of the Goat Man's shirt had been caught in the fence, and an even bigger gamble to assume that the goat had taken a bite of the man's clothes when he first came into his possession. But the goat responded to the scent, _et voila!_ "

Finally warmed, Watson plopped down in his armchair, and Holmes followed suit.

"I'm just glad Lestrade got him to agree to give up where he's keeping the girls in exchange for protection from the Italian mob," Watson mused, looking into the fire as though it were a stage replaying the night's events for him.

"I trust he'll tell us as soon as they are all recovered," Holmes replied, and rang Mrs. Hudson for some hot tea.

* * *

A little later, as the men sat with quilts in their laps and tea between their hands, Watson turned again to Holmes. "How did your father recover his reputation?"

"Oh, haven't you ever wondered how I became a detective? The man to whom he had owed the money had extorted more out of my father than he had originally proposed, and came to my father to ask for further illegal services. He was too proud to go to the police, of course, so I gathered all the information I could about the man. I learned where he lived and scouted his house until I had found enough evidence to alert the local constabulary and undo him. I was almost caught by the man's two sons, which in turn was my undoing."

"Was the man ever caught?"

Holmes' knuckles paled as he gripped his teacup tighter. "The trial was only for appearances. He was imprisoned, but unpublicized was his release only a week later. I had little doubt that many of those who presided over the case were in his pocket. That day, at the age of fourteen, I vowed that when I left home for University, I would dedicate the rest of my life to the practice of following the most minute details in order to ensure that justice was properly served."

"What became of the man after his release?"

"Oh, I kept my eye on him, you can be sure of that. He lived out a quiet life, which I am sure was filled with shady dealings of a more subtle nature. He died about ten years later. Naturally, I thought that was the end of it. It seemed the children never forgot the inconvenience I brought their father, though - at least one in particular."

Watson narrowed his eyes. "Did you ever have further dealings with that man?"

"Oh, yes, and you know them quite well, for that child was none other than James Moriarty."


	3. Chapter 3

**December 3rd:** _Crossover of your choice!_

 **From:** _cjnwriter_

* * *

I was returning to the rooms of my dear friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes from a grueling day at my practice on that blistering cold night when I chanced to look up in anticipation at the sitting room window and observed two silhouettes rather than one.

My first thought as I headed up the seventeen stairs was that it was Lestrade, or Gregson, or one of the other Yarders with whom we were so familiar.

What I found instead was an unfamiliar man pacing in front of the fireplace, a sopping wet hat clenched in his hand.

"Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, rising to clap me on the back. "How good to see you, my friend! Pour yourself a drink and sit, pray join me in hearing the strange tale Mr. Utterson here has promised to give us."

Mr. Utterson was of a respectable height and stature, and the self-assured pomp in his step and the crisp cut of his suit made me suspect that he was a lawyer. I was, I confess, taken aback when he fixed his eyes upon me.

"Doctor Watson, as you are a respectable man of the medical profession, perhaps you will be somewhat acquainted with the problem I have come bearing. I have a friend, an esteemed friend in the medical community, whose beliefs are...unorthodox, to say the least. He has taken to all manners of experimentation, and though I am too staunchly loyal to judge his choices, a mutual friend of ours, one Doctor Lanyon, has vehemently renounced them, calling them _devilish..._ among other, more unspeakable, things."

I nodded slowly. "I have heard of Doctor Lanyon, we belong to the same medical club, though I have not had occasion to thoroughly converse with him. Who is this esteemed man of which you speak?"

Mr. Utterson held up a hand. "I will get to that in a moment, but first it is crucial that you know the story. May you simply understand how worried I am for the safety and sanity of my friend. A year ago, a man trampled a young girl right upon some person's doorstep. He was apprehended, and offered no remorse for the crime, but agreed to pay restitution. He disappeared into that very house, and emerged with a check signed by my friend. My dear old friend, who had recently made a will leaving everything to this fiend,of whom myself and Doctor Lanyon, knew nothing. At this time, I became terrified that my friend had become involved in some horrid blackmailing scheme, and took it upon myself to watch the house in case the man ever called there again. One night, I saw him, and confronted him regarding the air of malice he exuded, but received nothing but threats in return. Threats that would make your blood turn to ice, Mr Holmes."

I glanced at Holmes, who was leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingertips and regarding Mr. Utterson with a look of interest.

"Following this encounter, I rushed to my friend's house, hoping to confront him about his relationship to this horrible man, but was told by a servant that he was absent. I asked the servant, Poole, if the ogreish fiend had ever called there. Poole told me that he had, and had been instructed to regard him as a second master. This escalated my anxiety, and I approached my friend soon after at a dinner party he hosted. He assured me not to worry, that he could be rid of the man anytime he pleased."

Holmes lowered his fingers with a sigh. "As utterly cryptic as this is, Mr. Utterson, you say all of this occurred a year ago. What brings you to us now?"

Utterson set down his cup and wrung his hat between his hands, dripping water onto our hearthrug. "Things came to a standstill after that, and I was sure that my friend really had cut loose from whatever business in which he had dabbled. But two months ago, a respectable old gentleman was murdered, one whom I knew very well. Sir Danvers Carew. Perhaps you recall it from the papers. I had heard rumors of a horrible, grotesque man at the scene of the crime, and I knew who it must have been. The police called on me, as an acquaintance of Carew's, and I directed them to the fiend's house. The rooms were sparse and bare, no hint of the comforts of living. But we found the remains of a checkbook, old and brittle, which seemed to have been lit on fire. Within the past months, my friend had seemed back to normal, showing no worry over the reappearance of the monster who had plagued him last year. Of late, however, he has stopped receiving visits altogether, and hosts no more dinners. He only immersed himself in his experiments. I called upon Doctor Lanyon, to discuss the matter with him. He was ill, gray skin and glassy eyes. He said he had visited the lab and received a shock which would soon see him dead. He gave me a letter, one which he says I must open in the event of my friend's death."

Holmes stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Have you visited your friend since your last visit with Doctor Lanyon?"

"A small number of times, though I confess I have been more discomfited by his erratic behavior each time. Something is weighing heavy upon the man's soul, and I pray that it doesn't kill him."

"Mr. Utterson, do not trouble yourself over this matter, I will be looking into it and shall correspond with you upon my findings. However, I shall require the name of your affected friend."

Utterson uncrumpled and donned his hat, the firelight reflecting in his eyes as he met the both of our eyes. "The esteemed Doctor Jekyll."

* * *

A few weeks passed, and being caught up with the busyness of a medical practice in the dead of winter, I had not occasion to ask Holmes for updates on the Jekyll case. But one evening, I was sitting in the Baker Street rooms, working on a draft of my latest story, when the last post of the day came in.

In it, was a letter for Holmes, forwarded from our acquaintance Mr Utterson. A strange expression came across Holmes' face as he read.

"Is it the Jekyll case? I asked, and picked up the prefacing page of the letter which Holmes had set aside on the arm of his chair.

 _Mr. Holmes,_

 _I beg of you to take this document, I cannot bear to have it in my possession any longer. I am changed enough by its contents and by what I have seen._

 _Many thanks in your endeavors,_

 _Utterson_

My voice felt useless for a moment. "Is-is it the letter to be opened open Jekyll's death?" I managed at last. "What does it say?"

Holmes gathered the stack of papers in his hand and folded them with a slight tremor. "It is best to put the matter far from our minds, Watson. The duality of man is something best left in the subconscious."

And he set the papers into the fireplace, rearranging the logs with the poker so that embers covered and obliterated the letter.

I heard whispers in my medical club, but I shall not repeat them. Should you possess the curiosity, you can find out for yourself what Doctor Jekyll had taken it upon himself to do. You will want to put the matter far from your mind, and God have mercy on your soul as you try to forget.


	4. Chapter 4

**December 4th:** _dreaming and/or waking up_

 **From:** _Bookrookie12_

* * *

Though it be his own choice for it not to be discussed, I am more than aware that my friend Watson's dreams are haunted by memories of his time in Afghanistan. My own sleep schedule is governed by the cases and research I undertake, and I am often awake to hear the primal exclamations from his chamber. When driven through one's subconscious, memories can reduce the strongest-willed of men to little boys.

On this night, however, I rose from my bed hours before dawn, energized by my new take on a current case, and found Watson in my armchair and wrapped in his dressing gown, his legs curled up beside him and looking into the dark fireplace. He jumped when my soft footfalls came into the room.

I tilted my head slightly, hoping that he would understand my question without my having to ask.

He sighed. "I do not want to talk about it, Holmes."

A small smile crept across my face as I crossed the room. "The issue remains, Watson, that you are in my chair."

My friend groaned and rubbed at his eyes. "You shall think me terribly childish."

"I shall not."

"I had hoped you would be awake when I came in here, and was unnaturally distressed upon finding that you were not, though I was not of the mood to come and wake you. The chair -"

I raised my eyebrows. "The chair?"

Watson grimaced. "...smelled like you. The chair smelled like you. It was rather nice. I should get up now, shouldn't I? I..."

A tendril of fondness wrapped itself around my heart, and I patted my flatmate upon the shoulder. "No, no, Watson, stay there. I will light us a fire and make us some tea, and I shall tell you what I have figured out concerning the Lockville case."

I received no response, only quiet acceptance as Watson settled back into the chair and I restocked the grate with fresh wood. Finally, as I stoked the new flames, he spoke. "Holmes?"

"Yes, my good man?"

"Thank you."


	5. Chapter 5

**December 5th:** _Royal jelly_

 **From:** _zanganito_

* * *

"Bees are fascinating creatures, don't you think, Watson?" Sherlock Holmes watched the cross-section of a hive he had placed under a huge domed glass on our table, drumming his fingers wildly on the table as he keenly observed their actions.

I sighed and heavily set down the book I'd been reading. "Holmes, I swear on the crown jewels of England if you play them _Flight of the Bumblebee_ one more time, I will -"

"But the larvae like it, Watson! It makes them wiggle!"

"It isn't as though they have anything else to do. I, on the other hand, am attempting to finish William Seabury's latest treatise on consumption, and I would be grateful for some quiet! It's near impossible to concentrate around here!"

"Now, Watson, I think you could do with some of this!" He pushed a small bowl towards me, filled with a thick, pale yellow syrup that he had been daily scooping out of the hive.

I wrinkled my nose at it. "I'd really rather not, Holmes."

"Royal jelly, Watson! I've been testing its myriad of benefits. It will improve your brain function and concentration! And its done wonders for the wrinkles around my eyes and the needle-marks on my arms."

I raised my eyebrows and picked up my book. "I am happy for you, Holmes, but as for me, I think I'll simply go sit in my room."

Holmes didn't reply, and I made for the door, assuming him lost in concentration again.

As I stepped into the hallway, I heard him speak, perhaps to me, perhaps to himself, or perhaps even to the bees. "I think I'd like to take up beekeeping someday."

I cracked a smile and shook my head as I headed for my room, knowing that nothing would ever come of it. Holmes and his flights of fancy seldom took the same course.


End file.
